


Impressions

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6582775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After capturing the Amitié, Captain Laurence meets an odd French officer who refuses to give his parole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impressions

Laurence shakes his head as the French crew are assembled under the fierce glares of his own men. They fought exceptionally hard – they also fought uselessly. The deck is stained with corpses.

He cannot understand it. The _Amiti_ _é_ is nearly crippled; if their aim was to ruin the ship, however, there are easier ways. It is impossible to question the courage of any man aboard, but their wisdom is something altogether different; even after Laurence held his sword to the first-lieutenant's throat and had his surrender the fighting had raged on until another lieutenant started to yell, in his great booming voice, a translation of “Lay down you swords, men, our _commanding officer_ has given it up – do you want the _whole ship_ to be slaughtered?”

Now there is just a sullen, restless silence. Laurence does not trust any of it.

“Sir,” First-Lieutenant Gibbs approaches; his head is smeared with blood. It is not his own. “In the hold – you should see this.”

Quite glad to get off the oppressive foreign deck, Laurence follows.

In the hold four of his marines are bristling off against three Frenchmen – one curiously garbed – with all seven of them ranged around a half-open crate.

“What is this?” he demands. “Mr. Jonston?”

“An egg, Sir.” The marine nods to the crate. “Dragon.”

A jolt of shock runs through him – excellent news, and some small explanation for the French crew's bizarre fierceness, though perhaps not a full one. “And you,” he addresses the enemy sailors. “We will not harm it – why do you turn against us? We have your parole.”

The two foreign sailors look at one another, swords still held out; the last man, garbed in overlarge boots and an expensive coat, addresses him in French. At first Laurence thinks he has misheard.

“I will not give my parole,” the stranger repeats.

“Your first lieutenant has given it for you all.”

“He is not in command of me.” An aviator, then? “And I will not give a word I intend to break; I will leave this ship as soon as I can, Captain. You can be sure of that.”

Laurence surveys him grimly. “If you are determined - very well.” To his men: “Take him below.” When the two French sailors move to protest the odd aviator only looks at them sharply; they both quell in an instant.

“What may I call you?” Laurence asks before he exits.

The stranger pauses. An odd smile quirks at his lips. “Alexander will suffice.”

Laurence inspects him. “But that is not your name,” he guesses.

Alexander only turns, walking like he fully expects the men to fall away before him. “Let us see your accommodations then, Captain – they cannot be worse then this hold.”

* * *

 

The French crew and officers are placed belowdecks in the _Amiti_ _é_ and allowed up in shifts each day for fresh air. The aviator, Alexander, is a different matter. Laurence suspects the honor of the French captives will not prevent them from helping their companion to escape, not if he is determined. Alexander remains on the _Reliant._

In truth, his isolation means that Alexander's berthing is more generous than that allowed to the other captives – or, indeed, even to the typical seaman. He is kept confined to a small hold. As of yet, however, he has not yet been allowed to take to the deck.

When Laurence visits he does not seem to have suffered for it, at any rate.

“Captain! I had wondered when you would arrive.” It has only been a day since the _Amiti_ _é's_ capture. Alexander has somehow acquired two small candles and a book for his small room, likely bought or talked out of the marines standing outside – Laurence will have to have a word with them. “I wonder if you have begun to rethink the wisdom of holding my men prisoner.”

The absurdity of this question brings Laurence to a pause. “The wisdom?” He echoes, and then, “ _Your_ men?”

“We are all soldiers of the Empire, Captain.” - And then Alexander moves right past these ominous implications. “I assure you, this insult will not go unnoticed, nor will it be forgotten.”

“You cannot suggest that we simply return you to France.”

“If you do, we can return an equal number of English officers.”

“Do you have the authority to make such an offer?”

“I assure you, you do not want to keep us here.”

For the first time Laurence properly looks at him. Alexander holds himself like a soldier, yes; but not quite like any aviator he has ever seen, and he lacks entirely the colorful uniforms common among the Armeé d'le Aire. Only Laurence's assumptions cast him in that role. Could he be a naval commodore, perhaps? An admiral even?

Somehow that thought rings sour too.

“You will be brought to England with your fellows to be charged,” Laurence says at last. “In the meanwhile, we would appreciate information about the dragon-egg that was found in your hold, as well as what you were doing in the Eastern waters.”

Alexander scoffs. “You know I will give no answer,” he says. “Do not bore me, Captain.”

“You are not here to be entertained.”

“No – I am here because men are slow to change, and slow also to die. England will surrender to the Empire, Captain. One day – perhaps far in the future, but one day.”

* * *

 

Doctor Pollitt's news that the dragon-egg will hatch within less than a week distracts Laurence from the prisoners in general. Alexander is easy to forget in the rush to have a harness arranged, repairs to the ship undergone, and missives created for the families of men slain in the fire-fight between the _Reliant_ and the _Amiti_ _é_ _._ Laurence grieves to watch Midshipman Carver clutch his hastily-made harness between thin fingers and wait for the egg to splinter while his future cracks at the seams.

Then Laurence himself speaks to the dragon – to Temeraire – and everything is upended.

Riley, newly promoted to the position of captain, is clearly unsure of his position. It is not everyday that an old captain haunts the deck of his previous ship, especially while holding no clear rank of his own. Laurence himself is equally unsure of how to act, but he first decides to update Riley about all pertinent matters that he might find necessary to the ship's running.

He confides in Riley his suspicions about Alexander's real rank.

Riley does not seem concerned, though; in fact Laurence suspects he is being humored. “I am sure the Admirals will investigate him, Sir - “ still, Riley calls him Sir - “ - but we have done our part. Whether he is an admiral, commodore, or cook's mate makes little difference if he will not talk.”

“I fear it makes all the difference, but I do not know why.”

“We can but do our duties; more will be understood in England,” Riley repeats.

The day after the hatching Laurence sits in his cabin listening to Temeraire's soft, quiet hums while the dragon snuffles sleepily against his lap. He has a book – dull, one of Pollitt's – and little to do. His world is utterly changed; the thought is becoming less terrible by the minute.

Someone knocks on the door.

“You may enter.”

It's Alexander. He stops in the doorway for a minute, two guards visible in the hallway behind him. The hunger on his face is almost painful to witness; Laurence ducks his head. He cannot be sorry to have damaged France's forces, but there are personal costs in every war.

He breaks the silence. “I have named him Temeraire.”

“...A French name.” Finally Alexander shuts the door behind him and enters the cabin properly. “ - Your accent is atrocious.”

Temeraire huffs and fidgets quietly.

“You have been given leave to walk the deck?” Laurence asks.

“Briefly.” Alexander watches for a minute more. “He is a Celestial. A very fine Chinese breed – I am sure he will want to know that.”

He will. “Thank you; I am sure he will be grateful for the information,” even if it is useless until they reach England.

“You are no longer Captain,” the man says abruptly. “You have relinquished your rank.”

“I imagine I shall be a captain among the aviators, but I can no longer call myself a man of the navy.” The evidence is right before them. “It would be unjust to split my attention, and unjust to take the chance of command from my men.”

“How curious you are,” Alexander murmurs. “ - Yes, I think you mean that.”

Laurence frowns.

“ - Have you given no thought to my earlier offer?”

“Offer?” It takes Laurence a moment to understand. “I half-thought you spoke in jest – no, of course you will not be freed. You are our prisoner, but I promise you that your colleagues will be treated well.”

“I have heard such words before – it seems a hollow consolation, to take a man from all fighting, all glory, and say 'you will be treated well'. A soldier does not expect to be treated well. He wants to fight and win.”

“But you have lost,” Laurence points out, not unkindly.

Alexander's face twists. “ - Yes,” he says, as though the memory pains him. “A temporary setback.”

At that Laurence actually laughs, incredulous. Alexander assesses him coldly. “Your crewmates – your men - fought well. There is no shame in it,” Laurence says, sorry for his rudeness.

“They failed; I will remember, but it is hard to blame them when even I could do nothing for us. War is an odd thing.” And Alexander falls silent.

His phrasing makes Laurence regard the man sharply. He touches Temeraire's neck, checking that the dragon is still sleeping, and says quietly, “You should resign yourself to what will come.”

“Never. That, never.” Alexander watches Temeraire too; his face hardens. “Here on the ocean you are removed from everything, Captain – you see one ship against another, a middling toy forcing down the colors of our fifth-rate frigate, and you say, 'here is proof of the might of England!'. There is more to the war. There is more to France, to both our nations, but you cannot see it. One day the French Empire will bring liberty to Europe.”

“France has taken Italy and encroaches ever Eastward, but in those places it is the _small_ people who continue to fight; your Emperor cannot prevail forever,” Laurence says. “Perhaps you have been blinded by the sun, and cannot see that the sky is full of storms.”

Alexander looks oddly amused. “I fear I will not convince you here – but history will prove who is right. I only pray you come to your sense before that time.”

“And I hope you, Alexander, do not die still thinking only of the Empire that will never be.”

* * *

 

Temeraire rests deeply after the gale where he saves Gordon, but he is ecstatic to be able to fly at last. Laurence watches for awhile as he circles the ship like a sprightly, leather-winged seagull, keeping his wings carefully flat and only occasionally giving way to excited flutters as he practices catching the wind.

Finally Laurence goes to the watch-officer, tells the man where he will be, and departs belowdecks. After spending so many hours in the sun its difficult to see anything in the relative darkness below. Eventually he winds his way to Alexander's room, makes himself known to the marines standing guard, and knocks on the door.

“I suppose this is your last chance to interrogate me,” Alexander says when he enters. “You will be leaving at Madeira, will you not?”

He is sitting at a small desk with two books now; his strange coat is neatly pressed. Laurence sighs a little.

“We will head to the covert in Gibraltar, quite likely.” There is no harm in saying it; Alexander, after all, is sentenced to a slow journey to England. “You will not be able to evade questioning there. And when the admiralty decide you have nothing more to offer - “

“The noose, yes,” says Alexander, to Laurence's great alarm. “Or perhaps the guillotine? I can never predict English whims - “

“We are not so cruel,” he says, and refrains from saying that the French _are –_ that the guillotine is, first and forever, a French invention. “I do not know why you would expect death. I would find a fate on a prison-hulk quite likely - “ nearly as good as death, and he does not offer the thought that Alexander may be an officer. “Would you expect otherwise?”

“You are naive,” Alexander tells him, but smiles. In return Laurence frowns.

“Any fate in England hands would be worse than death – and any fate would end in death, if I did not escape. They will not let me leave. I know they will never let me leave.”

“Only until the war is over,” says Laurence reluctantly.

But Alexander laughs; it is not a happy sound. “A fate worse than death,” he repeats. “If I must fall through battle, at least I should have been shot and killed – not trussed to return to land a prize.”

“There is always a reason to live.”

“Spoken like any soldier in victory.” Alexander stands. “You are not a bad man, Captain. I am sorry for that – that you are English, I mean. Return to your Temeraire. And I hope for your sake that wiser rulers come to England before too long.”

Laurence lingers. “And I hope you, Monsieur, can have some happiness.” Alexander's face twists ruefully as Laurence closes the door.

Laurence stands outside for a long moment. The deck heaves and rocks under his feet.

He has no intention of returning; somehow, he does not doubt that he will meet Alexander again.

* * *

 

The bell starts to clang when they are still over a day short of Madeira. Temeraire, confined to the deck by now, rears up in alarm as men begin tumbling up from the open hatchway that leads below. “Fire!” Someone cries, and of course that just provokes more chaos.

It is an organized chaos, though – at least for a few minutes. The pump is retrieved and sailors start assembling to help. “Go aloft, Temeraire,” Laurence urges; the dragon's girth will only be an obstacle. Temeraire reluctantly springs into the air, and choking smoke rolls out over the deck. Laurence is starting to feel heat from below; a galley-fire, but also -

He cups his hands over his mouth. “Fire in the stern!” he calls, and at once a stream of cursing rises over the stomping of feet; men hurtle toward the back of the ship to investigate the second source of the fire.

Which is when the French appear.

The first officer pulls himself up over the _Reliant's_ railing, grabs a half-full bucket right from the hands of a passing mate, and swings. He knocks one of the cook's mates right overboard as two more Frenchmen pull themselves onto the deck.

_“'Ware boarders!”_

Laurence doesn't have his sword. He ducks around the alarmed water-carriers until he finds a corporal. “Take six marines to the launches,” he orders sharply. “Hold the position.”

“Aye, Sir!”

The _Amiti_ _é_ no longer has launches, only a single jollyboat that is barely sea-worthy. It is plain that the boat was used to ferry over the French officers. There can be no other reason for the attack -

Except why not try to take the _Amiti_ _é_ , if they had escaped? Laurence spots a fallen seaman and scavenges the man's cutlass. He rises in time to block a swing, startling when he recognizes the man at the other end of the blade.

Acrid smoke blurs his vision; the French lieutenant stumbles and darts forward to stab at his shoulder. Laurence knocks his sword away in a flare of sudden fury and jabs his purloined weapon at the lieutenant's neck. “You will yield, damn you, or this time you will not have a chance to surrender.”

The lieutenant freezes.

Laurence yanks the man's sword away without grace; it will not be returned. “You could have killed us all,” he says. Dark plumes of smoke are still rising from the deck as though the entire ship is slowly smoldering.

“No, Captain,” says the Frenchman. “Only most of us.”

“Now I know your nation is beyond honor – or reason.”

“Some things must go beyond honor,” the first lieutenant tells him. And he does not address the second insult.

Laurence stares at him without comprehension.

People have seen them and the fighting is coming to a halt. “Did it work?” Someone asks in French, and then somewhere else a cheer is rising. The whole English crew looks around in bewilderment. Half a dozen slain Frenchman litter the deck. Laurence shoves the lieutenant toward a few sailors and goes to check the launches. The running rigging lays in shambles and a mess of blood and splinters is flung about everywhere. For all this trouble only one boat has made it off the _Reliant_ and the crew on it is likely to die of privation. Yet nearby a wounded sailor, his arm newly hewn at the wrist, grins deliriously between his groans. Laurence looks around and finds Riley's gaze with growing dread.

Riley pushes through the wounded to meet him. A splash of blood falls from the front of his coat. “By god,” he says. “What is it? What have they done?”

Laurence can only shake his head.

It takes longer for the fire to abate completely, but Riley signals for his men to begin taking the prisoners down below. The deck is cleared over the next hour and Pollitt makes his report. It only occurs to him, after visiting the unfamiliar faces among the cramped sickbay, what has been missing.

He checks the entire ship twice over; Alexander is nowhere to be found.

 


End file.
